


Close Your Eyes, It'll be Alright

by deo-agent (WillowRoseBrook)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Minor Injuries, Sharing a Bed, a nice trip to the woods, can be season two or three, no real spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowRoseBrook/pseuds/deo-agent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re going to have to snuggle close to stay warm,” he teases, that smile playing his lips, the one that she is selfishly glad is reserved almost exclusively for her.<br/>	“I think I’ll take my chances with hypothermia.” She smiles back at him, that smile that she forgot she had, that is reserved almost exclusively for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes, It'll be Alright

There’s a piece of metal shrapnel in her leg, maybe three inches long, and fairly thin, not more than an eighth of an inch wide. She’s thanking God that it hit the side of her thigh, because it hasn’t penetrated any major blood vessels. There’s blood, enough to make Mulder wince a little, but not enough to keep her from clamoring a few hundred feet up the hill, away from the pile of wreckage. It hurts like hell.

            They’re in the middle of an evergreen forest in northern Minnesota, and Scully is beginning to feel like all trips to the woods are cursed. She sits, biting her lip against the pain, and trying to catch her breath, while Mulder rummages through his bag.

            She doesn’t ask him “What was that?” because he doesn’t know either. They’d been ten feet from the jeep when it had exploded. Not like a bomb. The world had blurred for a few seconds, and it had felt like Scully could sense the vibration of everything around her, feel the world turning, for a moment before the bang. They’d been tossed away, and the car was in pieces, but there hadn’t been fire. They had had a full tank of gas, plus an emergency canister in the back. It by no accounts made sense, but Scully didn’t really expect things to anymore.

            “You don’t have to play doctor,” she tells him quietly, as he digs through the first aid kit. “Just find me some gauze and an alcohol swab.” He mumbles something in return and keeps digging, and she realizes that she hasn’t asked him if he’s injured. He’s not dripping blood that she can see, but he had been as close to the car as she had.

            She steals a peek down at her leg and inhales sharply, turning her head away again. There was no way she wasn’t going to need stitches. And a tetanus shot. She sucks both her lips between her teeth.

            “Mulder, is there a suture kit in there? Or even a butterfly bandage?” He finally looks up, meeting her eyes. He has a pair of forceps in his hand, and he looks serious.

            “There’s a kit. I’ve got you covered. Now, Scully, lean back a little.”

            She complies, swallowing heavily. Her pants cling to her leg, soaked with blood, and the medical doctor in her is telling her that they need to cut them off while every other part of her reminds her that this is her only pair of pants in the Minnesota wilderness in April.

            This isn’t a situation Scully is used to. She’s been injured on the job countless times, but her encounters tend to end in sterile hospital rooms with qualified doctors stitching her up. Mulder is watching her carefully.

            “You okay?”

            “Besides the hunk of metal in my leg, great.” He nods, because what other sort of answer was he expecting? He leans in close over her upper thigh, fingers tracing the outlines of the wound. “You’re going to want to make sure that—“

            “Scully, I’ve had first aid training. Just relax.” He looks nervous, though, as he grips the forceps, and Scully leans back so that she’s lying down on the slope and closes her eyes. “Okay,” he says, and one hand grips her thigh and she feels the metal begin to move. It’s not in a straight line; it’s jagged, and he should have let her finish her sentence and tell him to pull _up_ and with steady pressure, and to be ready—

            “Sorry,” he murmurs as his grip on the metal slips and she lets out a little gasp. She’d already told him about the doctor in the Antarctic who performed his own appendix surgery, and he’d brushed her off, but she sits up again anyway.

            “Mulder,” she warns. “I can get it out.” He hands her the forceps and backs off, and she’s in control again. “Can you get something ready that I can use for compression? And some scissors.” She takes a steadying breath and grips the metal shard tightly. She tries to separate herself from the pain, turn the patient into someone else. “Mulder,” she hisses, and he’s back by her side in a moment with a gauze pad. “I’m going to yank it out now. Can you apply pressure? Hard.”

            She’s dizzy for a moment, but Mulder’s hand is there, firm and familiar, and the pain is less sharp than aching.

            “I think I’ll take it from here?” he asks, and she probably should let him. She nods, eyes tight shut.

            “You’re going to have to cut the jeans away from the wound,” she tells him. Her hand replaces his pushing down, and he takes the scissors and begins snipping. Scully can’t help but feel that this is taking way too long and has become far too dramatic. Her free hand brushes up through her hair and she sighs. His hand covers hers on her leg and she retreats. She lies back again, and he rummages around in the first aid kit for a moment. She can feel the sting of antiseptic. She almost asks him if he even knows _how_ to stitch a wound, but decides to just trust him, because she is exhausted and in pain, and isn’t sure if she can bear the sight of her own flesh being pierced repeatedly. What she would give for an anesthetic.

            “Alright Dana, hold still.” She never knows how to feel when he calls her Dana. She’s not allowed to call him Fox. She focuses on that, and the slight chill that’s setting in as the sun begins to set, instead of the sharp pain. Minutes later, Mulder is applying gauze. He sticks it on with a Band-Aid, and Scully would tell him that there’s tape in the kit, but it somehow makes her smile. Mulder never plays by the book. He takes one last heavy breath and then crawls up the slope to sit at her side. They have a view of the clearing, in the center of which sits the twisted heap of metal that used to be their car. She breaks the silence.

            “What’re we going to do, Mulder?”

            “Your phone working?” he asks, still staring off into the distance. She already knows the answer, they both do, but she pulls it out of her jacket anyway and checks.

            “We’re going to have to spend the night up here, Mulder.”

            “That’s what I thought.”

            Neither of them finds the idea appealing, she knows. They knew better than anyone what kinds of things can happen in the woods at night.

            “We should find some sort of shelter,” she says, shifting and trying to conceal the sharp pain that comes when she moves. Mulder holds up a hand, the universal symbol for “stay’, and moves down the slope a little.

            “The canvas isn’t torn that badly,” he calls. “I’m going to see if I can salvage it.” Scully stays put. They could probably make it back to the road before it was too late, she knew, if she hadn’t been injured. There’s a pang of guilt, and a pang of fear at being left alone, but she watches Mulder poke through the wreckage and knows she has no need to worry. In fifteen minutes he is helping her to her feet, canvas and bag in hand. They walk further up the slope, and Mulder has that concerned look on his face with each step she takes. She keeps a steady expression. They’re nearing the top of this ridge, and Mulder gestures to the left where a trio of young firs grows. The branches begin at about chest level, and she believes it’s as good a place as any to set up camp. She settles downs in the dust at the base of one tree, and Mulder sits across from her.

            “What do you think happened?” she finally asks. A leaflet has fallen into his hair, and she resists the urge to brush it away. When he doesn’t respond, she begins a sarcastic teasing. “Super seismic bird? Bomb from Jupiter?” She manages to get a wry smile.

            “I don’t know, Scully. I’m sorry.” She nods, just as theory-less. “Apparently, I should stop dragging you into coniferous forests, though.”

            “I’m bad luck,” she teases.

            “You keep getting hurt.” They’re quiet for a few moments before Mulder jumps to his feet. “Now, survival skills.”

            He drapes the tattered canvas over the branches, but after a few moments they both end up laughing at his ultimate failure. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain, so Scully suggests just spreading it out on the ground. He has a shiny silver blanket in his bag, and a bottle of water, which Scully sips from gratefully, careful not to drink too much.

            “D’you know what the temperature’s supposed to be tonight?” she asks.

            “In the forties,” he says.

            “Fantastic.”

            “We’re going to have to snuggle close to stay warm,” he teases, _that_ smile playing his lips, the one that she is selfishly glad is reserved almost exclusively for her.

            “I think I’ll take my chances with hypothermia.” She smiles back at him, that smile that she forgot she had, that is reserved almost exclusively for him.

            The wind picks up, becomes noticeable for the first time since they arrived. Scully has her face to it, and a chill creeps up her spine.

            “Come over here,” says Mulder, patting the spot next to him and scooting over. She complies, pulling her windbreaker tighter around her upper body. She sits with her back to the tree, shoulder to shoulder with Mulder.

            “I went to Girl Scout camp when I was little,” she says.

            “Mm.”

            “They taught us how to build a shelter. There aren’t a lot of leaves around here, just pine needles, but we should see if we can find something to block the wind. Branches…a bush?”

            “I’ll go look.”

            “Stay close.”

            He brushes his hand over her shoulder as he passes by.

            “See what you can do about dinner,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

            She’s grinning again, like a fool, as she rifles through the bag. He has a couple of Cliff bars tucked away in one pocket. Of course, there are sunflower seeds. The bag is empty of much else that’s of use to them. An extra round, his phone, a pen and legal pad. She fishes a photo from the bottom. It’s old, and she runs her fingers along the tattered edges. It’s a little girl, probably three years old, grinning, holding a dandelion in her tiny hands. A boy stands behind her, pouting. It’s Mulder, no doubt. That’s a face he still makes twenty-something years later.

            “Family picnic,” comes a voice behind her. “I didn’t like having pictures taken.” She turns around to see Mulder, standing just outside the pine grove. His arms are crossed and he’s smiling.

            “Sorry,” she murmurs. He shakes his head.

            “Stay there. I’ve got something.” He’s dragging a dead bush, its leaves mostly brown and crinkled. He leans it up against the opposite side of the tree Scully is sitting at. He crawls back in to find her adjusting the branches.

            “Not much,” he says, “But it might help a little.” Scully tosses him an energy bar. The photograph still sits on her uninjured thigh. He settles in next to her, then slides his hand up her leg to take the picture. Scully watches him.

            “That was my awkward phase,” he says with a fond grin. Scully leans against his shoulder, trying to give him a playful shove, but he doesn’t budge, and her head comes to a rest. She doesn’t move away. “How’s your leg?”

            She sighs.

            “Not too bad,” she says, which is only barely a lie. It aches. He nods.

            Scully shifts away from him, and they eat in a comfortable silence. It’s twilight; there’s no sign of the sun in the sky, but it’s still pinkish-purple at the edges. It’s almost like they could actually be camping.

            “Do I have a picture of us?” Mulder asks, and the question takes her by surprise.

            “No. We’ve never taken one. Why would we?”

            “I’m sure there’s one out there somewhere. You and me holding down some mutant criminal. Running away from other government officials.”

            “You should contact the Gunman,” she replies, raising her eyebrows, trying to ignore the happy tingling she feels at the question.

            “You don’t want to see what Frohike can do with editing.”

            She grins, shoving her hands into her pockets.

            “You’re shivering.”

            “So are you,” she retorts, and it’s true. The temperature has dropped dramatically in the past hour.

            “Time for bed.” He reaches into his bag and wraps the foil blanket around their shoulders. It isn’t enough.

            “We’d better lie down,” she says.

            “But no sleeping,” he says with a wink.

            Because it’s cold out. And sleeping is dangerous. Because of the cold. Hypothermia.

            She nods, her facial expression still frozen.

           They recline on the canvas, curled to fit so their feet don’t touch the cold ground. Mulder drapes the blanket over them, and they both tuck it under.

           “I feel like takeout,” says Scully. Mulder grins, then he pulls the blanket over their heads. They’re lying about six inches apart. Scully can feel the heat drifting off her partner. It’s warmer under the blanket, but it’s only taken the edge off the cold.

            It reminds Scully of her primary school days, when she would sit on the playground with two or three other girls, all wrapped in winter jackets and mittens, noses running. They’d hide behind the picnic table and shiver, laughing at the way their voices shook, and telling stories. The bell rang, and they went back inside, numb fingers tingling in the warmth.

          “Now what?” she finds herself breathing.

         “We wait,” says Mulder. She can feel his breath against her forehead. “And we stay awake.”

          She doesn’t have to give him the statistics on hypothermia. He knows. His hand moves into the space between them.

         “Come here, Scully.” She only hesitates a second before complying. He closes the final gap after she’s settled down, and their bodies press together. Scully forces herself to breathe and presses her head into his chest. His arms circle around her back.

         They stay just like that for a while. Every now and then one of them whispers, “You awake?”, and eventually Mulder catches her drifting off into sleep. He rubs her back, rousing her. She takes a startled breath.

         “Scully.”

         “I know.” His hands don’t stop moving for a few minutes.

        “What do you think about the case?” he asks, which is a good idea. Thinking will move her mind away from sleep. Sleep seems so easy, and she knows it’s not because of the cold. She convinces herself that being held just satisfies a basic human need—touch. It’s nothing more.

        “After what happened to the jeep,” she says, trailing off. “I feel like we have a pretty good idea what happened to those trees.” Over 650 acres in the remote wilderness, snapped jaggedly, every which way, no signs of storms or animals or people or disease. “The real question is how.”

       She can feel him resting his chin on top of her head. She tilts her face forward, feeling the buttons of his coat.

      “You’re shivering, Scully,” he murmurs, and she can feel the vibrations from his throat in her own. It’s gotten cold again. She tries to burrow closer, but he removes his arms from around her and slips his hands between them. It takes her a moment in the dark to realize that he’s undoing his coat buttons. He moves his fingers to the top of her zipper, pausing a moment as if asking a question. She is certain he can hear her heart beating. She swallows heavily. He tugs the zipper down, slowly, and pulls her back to him. He’s just wearing a t-shirt, and he’s so, so warm as he pulls the front of his coat around her back.

      “Like pulling your arms into your shirt as a kid,” he says, and Scully would reply, but her voice is caught in her throat. She tries to think of the science of it—does less clothing between them actually equal more heat? It certainly seems to. The shivering has stopped, but Mulder’s hands under her jacket have caused a different type of trembling. She hopes he doesn’t know the difference. They slip under her shirt, lightly tracing patterns, and before she knows what she’s doing, she murmurs,

   “Fox.” It’s soft and breathy, and she freezes immediately. Mulder doesn’t pause at her words, but he does when she stiffens.

    “Scully,” he replies, very softly. His hands slip from under her shirt. “Are you still cold?”

    She doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know how to take the loss of his caresses, or the situation at hand. There’s a knot in her tongue. She can’t speak.

    “No,” she finally decides, but her voice isn’t strong. It’s silent for a moment.

     “That’s a shame,” whispers Mulder. His hand is back, firm, holding her over the layers of clothes. She wants to ask why. She knows he wants her to ask why.

     A part of her just wants to kiss him, to pull him close and take control of the situation and find out once and for all. Move on from here, or put it behind them, chalk it up to a night with frazzled nerves in a makeshift sleeping bag. She wants the waiting to be over, doesn’t want to be left hanging. Desperately, she doesn’t want to be the one who doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to be the one at risk of being hurt. Doesn’t want to be at his mercy.

     But she knows it has to be him who makes the final move.

     “Why?” She can feel her pulse in her throat. She feels like she is choking. He tips her face towards his, fingers leaving tingling trails as they skim her skin. His mouth goes to her ear.

    “I know an excellent way of keeping warm.”

     Damn him. She can hear the laughter in his voice, and he knows what he’s doing to her. He knows, and she doesn’t know how to react to that. So she doesn’t move. His lips skim down her neck, and his hands slip back up under her shirt.

    “Say no, Scully,” he whispers. “Say no if you want to.”

    She just lets out a little sigh, a whimper, and he’s pulling her shirt up, exposing her body to his roaming fingers. He doesn’t go further than that, but it’s enough; it’s enough after so long of nothing. So long of waiting. So long of wanting.

    She shudders, and there’s just enough light to see the glint in his eyes as he bends down to kiss the palm of her hand. Her shaking fingers find his flesh, rucking up his shirt as he has hers. It’s Mulder, pure and simple, warm and real, and there’s a lump in her throat because she loves him, she loves him so much and she has for so long. She’s followed him around the world, on crazy unofficial missions. She’s followed him back out of the doorway of death. She’s pulled him back from that place as well.

    There’s no room for big movements, or else the cold air will come rushing in.

    “Mulder,” she whispers, because it’s all she can say. She brings her lips to his throat, tongues his pulse point, kisses the lines of his neck. Finally, he cups her cheeks with his hands and his lips meet hers. It’s a soft kiss, pure. It’s a simple kiss and then their mouths are roaming again. He catches her ear between his lips, and she drags her teeth across his shoulder.

     His hands are creeping lower, pulling her shirt back down with them to preserve the warmth. As they slip into the waistband of her jeans, she moves just wrong and a jolt of pain from the denim moving against her injured leg makes her bite her tongue, hard.

    “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry….Stay still.” She wraps her arms around his waist and tries. His fingers, deft despite the cold, go to her buttons. Four of them, popped open one by one. “Sshh,” he soothes as he pulls the jeans down. He’s careful, easing them over her gash, in a way she should have done from the start. He lets them bunch loosely around her kneecaps, then brings his hands back up. He cups her buttocks, and nuzzles her hair in a way that just makes her sigh.

    “Stay still, Dana,” he repeats. She’s not sure what his intentions are, exactly. She clings to him tighter as his fingers roam.

    With no one else would she let herself be so open…helpless…

    He slides a hand down the front of her underwear, running his fingers softly through her curls. She shivers. There is no moment of doubt, no worry that usually comes when she gets this far with a partner. She stays still, like he tells her, keeps her grip on his upper back.

    Slowly, so agonizingly slowly, he dips his fingers between her folds, jumping over the bundle of nerves that is crying out for attention. She’s dripping wet. Has been since he pulled her close hours ago, if she’s being honest. She’s about to slip into an over-analysis when he plunges a finger inside her. Her walls clench and her hips tip forward. It’s been so, so long for her.

    He pulls her closer with his other arm. Very slowly the first time, he curls his finger forward. She sucks in a breath and he chuckles, doing it again, this time harder. Soon he has her bucking against his hand, trying to conceal her panting, to conceal that he will be her undoing. He grips her hips to still them, brushing a thumb across her clit, and she can’t help the tiny gasp that comes with the intake of air that time.

     “Mulder,” she whimpers, clawing at his skin. “Mulder, I don’t—“

     “Sshh.”

      He’s so calm as he makes her fall apart. And she’s falling entirely apart. She’s feeling things she’s never felt before, and she doesn’t know if she should let herself feel this way. It’s dark, but she knows he’s smiling _that_ smile, the one that she’ll never be able to see again without thinking of this moment. His fingers increase their pace, and Scully can’t remember ever feeling this out of control. She can’t remember ever feeling this _good._

      “Fox,” she gasps the name she never calls him. “Fox.” He brushes her clit again, this time with more intention, circling his thumb back around and beginning to rub. “Mulder!”

     “Let go, Scully,” he whispers. She can hear the excitement in his voice, feel it in his body. Let go. It’s something Scully never does.

      His pace increases again, and he’s jamming his fingers into her and hitting that spot that feels so good and she’s never felt like this before. His movements border on rough, but he’s brought her there, and all she feels is _good._ She’s on the edge, hurtling towards it, flying, no control.

      She doesn’t let go. Except with Mulder.

      There’s a flash of images before her eyes, him holding her, her holding him. Her hands brushing gently over his neck, his fingers at her waist, voice reassuring in her ear, The two of them laughing, the two of them crying, him giving her that smile, the smile she gives him—all of the little moments that have lead up to this one.

       All of the moments where they’ve let go for each other.

       He presses his lips to her neck, murmuring softly, and she can feel her muscles tightening. She breathes deeply. _Mulder._

       One last circle of his thumb over her clit and she’s coming, gasping, panting, speaking nonsense. It’s a violent climax, sweeping her, making her whole body shake. She sobs against him as she comes undone and he slows his pace. It becomes a soft stroking as she comes back down, eyes still squeezed shut, face pressed into his chest.

        Her arms are still around him, and she’s clung to him so tightly that she knows there will be marks, more than light scratches or a soft bruising grip. Her face is hot with tears, but she doesn’t know why she’s crying. Mulder is rubbing her back, soothingly, and she’s whispering, “Mulder, Mulder.”

         “Sleep now, Dana,” he whispers. She knows there is no danger in that. “I’ll keep watch.”   She removes her nails from his back, but keeps her hands there, soft. She can feel the love radiating from him, can almost feel his happy smile. He keeps his arms around her, too, keeps up his gentle stroking, and it lulls her to sleep.

         She’s woken up by the early morning sun. Mulder has lifted the blanket from over their heads. He’s stroking her hair, watching her with a smile on his lips. She smiles at him, a vulnerable smile.

        “Hey.”

        “Good morning,” he replies, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Think we can make it back to the road today?”

       She nods, not wanting to move, just wanting this moment to last.

       “Mulder—“ she starts. He brings a finger to her lips, shushing her. He grins, wickedly.

        “I could go for some pancakes,” he says. “We passed that place, back in town. Pancakes for lunch when we get back. Together.”

         She just shakes her head at him, smiling, and kisses him softly on the lips. His sound of satisfaction is better than the birdsong.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for the X-Files, but it certainly won't be my last. I'm at the beginning of season three right now, and I love these two so much. I know I have a long way to go, but I know it will be worth it. Thanks for reading!


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